Hiding from Love
by Lulu1
Summary: This is a story about Hermone, who, disguised, now 25, is Ron's secretary. just read, people. I think my muse's name is "Angsty fluff" i got this idea while drying the dishes. that's just weird, ain't it? warning: SAP ALERT!!!!!


Hermione was glad he hadn't recognized her yet

Hermione was glad he hadn't recognized her yet.

She'd been Ron's secretary for four weeks, and , beyond the cursory glance he'd give her as he strolled into his office at the Ministry of magic, he hadn't looked at her at all.

She sighed as she shuffled the papers on her desk. It wasn't a surprise, really. She had taken careful pains to make sure he didn't recognize her, since she had needed this job so desperately. Hermione Granger had become Helga Marsh, had acquired a pair of rectangular, black glasses (non-prescription, of course. Hermione had never needed glasses), and had, from the first day at this job, her bushy, unruly hair pulled back in a tight bun. She had put aging charms on her face, to make her look thirty instead of just twenty-five, and never spoke, except for the occasional "Yes, Mr. Weasley" and "No, Mr. Weasley."

Then again, he'd changed, too. When she was sure he wasn't looking, she'd studied his features carefully, noting the worried expression that always was frozen on his face, reminiscent of Percy, now Minister of Magic. 

Ron seemed like he was missing someone very much. Hermione had seen the wistful glances he had given happy couples on he streets of Diagon Alley when she followed him. That was pretty much her life, now. When she got off work, she'd follow Ron around, then, when he headed home, she'd go back to her flat and read, until she was sure he was in his home. Then she'd go to a payphone on the street and call him, just to hear his voice say "Ron Weasley speaking. Who is this?" and feel a delicious tingle run down her spine.

The fourth time she had done that, in as many days, she'd gotten him mad. Mad enough for him to start swearing at her, so like old Ron that she almost cried with happiness. Hermione couldn't resist saying "Ron!" very admonishingly, like she used to. The phone had been hung up abruptly.

The next day, Ron had called in sick.

She had cut her calls down to once a week, after that.

Hermione clearly remembered why she was living like this. Hermione Granger, top of her class, brightest witch of her age, working as a secretary with barely enough pay to get by. She should have been the Mistress of Magic, she should have been Head of the Department of Mysteries, should've been the best Auror in the world. But here she was. Why? She had asked herself over and over again. And the only answer she had ever come up with was "Ron Weasley."

Ron, who had infuriated her, who she had infuriated, who she used to yell and scream at, then cry later, wishing she could take all of it back. Ron, with his adorable freckles and open-book smiles. Ron, who had made her laugh. Ron, who, she was sure, had never, ever, loved her back.

Hermione had hidden from him, after graduation. When Harry defeated Voldemort the year after, she made sure to move so she couldn't be invited to the party, so she wouldn't see Ron and go all weak-kneed and tongue-tied. She'd been careful never to stay in the same place twice, always moving to different countries, seeing different things, writing her books but never publishing them, for fear of being found by Ron. 

And finally, having run out of money, she had looked in the _Daily Prophet_ for a job where she wouldn't be noticed. There was only one job like that, a secretary for the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Hermione had asked a witch sitting next to her what his name was. The woman had given her a very puzzled look, then answered, "Ron Weasley. Where _have_ you been, dearie?" Hermione had answered, "Oh, here and there", and walked away, slightly perplexed herself.

She never had found out what _that_ had been all about.

So Hermione, in desperation, had gone to a Muggle judge and changed her name, then bought some glasses and several bottles of Sleakeazy's Hair Potion. She'd been accepted as soon as she walked into the door, because "Not many people want to work as Mr. Weasley's secretary, madam", or so she'd been told.

Hermione rather wondered about that, too.

But as soon as she saw him, she started getting all those . . . _feelings_ again. It didn't matter how changed he was, that he'd loved another woman. He was still _Ron._ And she was still desperately, madly, in love with him.

She followed him everywhere she could, wrote down all the little quirks she'd loved about him from her school days and some he still had now. She wrote him long letters, then threw them away, and wrote instead long letters she wished he'd write to-

Hermione was interrupted from her train of thought by one Ron Weasley bursting into the room. He strode violently, angrily, to the entrance to his office and slammed the door. Hermione sat, frozen, in shock. That was the first time in a month he'd not had that worried expression on his face. In fact, he'd rather looked like . . . She wracked her brain for the proper incident. Ah, yes. Before fifth year, when she'd told she couldn't come to the Burrow that summer because she was going to Bulgaria. She hadn't been, really. Hermione just couldn't think she could've restrained herself for a week before Harry got there. It was a strange expression, really. Angry, hurt, confused, and . . . something else. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Hermione wondered if it had anything to do with the phone call she had given him the night before.

When he had answered the phone, instead of hearing "Ron Weasley speaking," she hadn't heard anything at all for a few moments. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, she'd heard a hoarse "Hermione?"

Hermione had been so shocked she'd answered "Yes?"

Realizing immediately her mistake, she had slammed the payphone down and run out of the booth.

She was snatched out of reverie by another loud BANG! as Ron strode back through the door.

"Miss Marsh," he said distractedly, "Please inform anyone who asks that I am taking the day off" "Yes, Mr. Weasley," said Hermione hurriedly.

"And if I get any calls-," Ron stopped. "Oh, never mind."

So he stormed out of the room.

Then Hermione became aware of a fact. The door to his office was open. Wide open. He'd never left it open before.

Cautiously, carefully, making sure to leave a sign on her desk that said she was out for a coffee break, she slipped into his office, took the uncomfortable appearance charm off, along with her glasses, and began rifling through his desk.

The first thing she pulled out was a law proposal of some sort, along with the law, signed by the Minister of Magic. It was a strict rule stating that "All house elves must be completely educated as to their choices and options and to turn away any house elf just because he/she asks for wages is considered a criminal offense." Hermione stared at that for a few moments, then stared at the small print along the bottom of the proposition "Put forward by Ronald Weasley."

_That_ must be why that witch had looked at her so strangely.

Then she noticed a locked file drawer at the bottom of his desk. Well, it was _supposed_ to be locked, she guessed. But right now it was unlocked.

There were eight dividers there, the first marked "98-99", the second marked "99-00" and so forth up to the present year. Curious, she drew out the first item in the "98-99" folder and began to read:

__

Dear Hermione,

Where the hell are you? I miss you. Where are you? I can't find your address anywhere. Where are you? Where? Where? I love you, I miss you, come back, come back . . .

Hermione stopped reading. This had to be a joke. Ron really knew she was his secretary and he was playing a trick on her.

But then why was the paper yellowed with age?

Fred and George probably helped him with that, she told herself. 

But, pausing for a moment to listen to see if anyone was coming, she began rifling through the letters with growing panic, hoping he wouldn't come back all day so that she could read them all, even though they couldn't possibly be real. Ron had never loved her.

_Dear Hermione, Come back . . . Dear Hermione, Will you marry me? . . . Dear Hermione, To Hell with it, Hermione, where are you? . ._ . And there were so many . . . one for practically every day. Then she read a letter from the day before that must have been written after she'd called, in violent, angry strokes, the paper covered in crinkly spots as though he'd been crying when he wrote it:

__

Dear Hermione,

Why are you haunting me now? I love you, why are you messing with my mind? Are you really calling, or is it just my need that's making your ghost call? Damn it, tell me! Where are you? Beautiful, beautiful Hermione, where have you gone? Why aren't you here? We were supposed to be happy, now. Why did you go? What's wrong with me? Are you in love with someone else? I need you, I miss you.

Yours forever,

Ron

Hermione stared at the paper, so engrossed that she didn't hear Ron until it was too late.

"Yes, I know, I forgot to lock my door and I'm just coming back to-."

Hermione froze, caught with the letter in her hand.

"Miss Marsh, what are you doing in my-."

Ron stopped, then lunged forward.

"Hermione!" he croaked.

She scrambled back, bumping into his chair, afraid of the intense, hungry look he had given her. 

"Ron, I-I-I can explain," she stuttered as she reached the opposite end of the room. "I was just- I needed to-I mean-" _Think, Hermione, think!_

"Hermione, you were my secretary? This whole time?" Ron said, apparently having gotten himself mostly under control, except he was still staring at Hermione like a wolf at his supper.

"F-f-for the last four weeks, yes", she said apprehensively.

"And you've been calling me, every week?"

"Y-yes."

Ron's eyes suddenly darted to the open drawer, then the letter in Hermione's hand, then back to Hermione again, quick as a blink.

"What are you doing in my office?"

"Well," she laughed nervously. "You never leave your door open, so I thought I'd just-."

"Look through my things?"

Hermione gulped.

"Well-."

Ron dived forward, quicker this time, so she didn't have a chance to move-

And crushed his mouth against her own.

Thunder and heat roared through Hermione's body as they kissed, Ron's lips pressing down on her, eating her alive. Her breath came up short when they stopped, then was swept back into the storm.

Ron was breathing raggedly when they broke apart the second time, his eyes roving up and down her body, as though she wasn't wearing unrevealing, heavy robes and wearing nothing at all-

"Hermione, Hermione," he murmured. "Where have you been? I missed you so much . . .."

"Ron-" she said. "Oh, Ron. I've been hiding from _you_."

Ron looked, startled, at her face, staring at it intently.

"Hiding from me?"

"Ron, I-" Hermione started. "Ron, I've missed you so much, I was afraid-" She dissolved into tears.

"Afraid of what?" Ron whispered, placing an escaped curl behind her ear.

"I was afraid," she sniffed, "that you didn't miss me like I missed you. That you didn't love me like I love you. I was afraid that I wasn't good enough for you, that- that-" Hermione began sobbing again.

"Ssh, Ssh," Ron said as he pulled her to his chest. "It's okay, Hermione, I love you, I've missed you, I wrote you letters but I never knew where you were-"

"I know," she weeped, "I know. I made sure you didn't know where I was."

"Hermione-" started Ron hesitantly.

"What?", she looked up at him, with wet eyes.

Giving her a wicked grin that made her shiver, Ron breathed into her ear:

"How many children do you want?"

Hermione smiled back and wiped the tears from her face.

"As many as we can have."

A/N: I own nothing. And jkr can have the plot if she wants it. Please excuse any grammar mess-ups. My muse is demented, I tell you. My muse and my computer. Geez, demented save as html thing . . . argh


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